Trying to describe what this movie is about is akin to trying to escape the labyrinth without a map; you’ll just end up lost and looking like an asshole. The short version is...actually, aside from the jewel heist (which is interminably long even at 8x speed), we have no idea what’s going on, but we're now confirmed nihilists, so here we go anyway.

The fun starts with a Star Wars text crawl that doesn’t give you any background about our swarthy hero, the details of his quest or really any reason to keep living. He shamelessly rips off Indiana Jones as he bungles his dive rolls through the Temple of Low Effort Doom miraculously unharmed despite getting shot, bitten by dogs, and blown up at least twice:

At this point, the action expands to a crown heist involving a crack team of fuck ups (Ocean's One and a Half), including the mountaineer who drinks to forget (that he looks like Adam Sandler), the circus strongman with a heart shittier than Boris Yeltsin's, the most mediocre acrobat int he world, and best of all the Fiat of mustachioed fat guys, a poorly-designed piece of shit nobody wants a ride from. This elite crew of misfits then goes over their break-in plan using a scale model more detailed than your spergy friend’s Warhammer battlefield, only to completely disregard any of the principal tenets of it, because fuck you.

It’s at this point where things start to get a little hazy, since between the 40 minutes of seeing into the future and poorly ripping off Mission: Impossible and a villain that combines the worst of the James Bond franchise and the Hare Krishna, it’s hard to care enough to pay attention until the end, where James Tiberius Striker finds a couple fire-spewing jewels that would give Colonel Kilgore a never-ending boner. The end. That’s it.

Ok, not exactly. (Un)Shockingly enough, the movie ends on a badly attempted cliffhanger which has absolutely not one single thing to do with the rest of the movie - it involves a disgusting slimy blob of goo rising up from a putrid, gas-filled swamp to barf disgusting, other-worldly shit-penises out of its mouth directly into the viewer’s face like a bad bowl of Chili’s. No, it’s not Joe Don Baker...this time - although if you’re reading this JD, call us (we’ve got a perfect role for you as Swamp Thing in the new gritty straight-to-video NR reboot we’re planning!).

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The guns are gone. Now what happens to all those paper targets? Don't tell me you forgot about the paper targets. The ones hanging from little clips on fancy clotheslines at shooting ranges. With no guns to destroy these legions of paper bastards, they go unchecked.